


It's After Midnight in Chicago

by Karl_Josephson



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Character Death, Horror, M/M, Monsters, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 05:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13734087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karl_Josephson/pseuds/Karl_Josephson
Summary: What began as a creative blog to pass the time and share the urban legends of Honor Matthews' childhood quickly developed a small, yet, devoted following. People started visiting the places he wrote about, taking pictures, sending him fanmail, buying his merchandise. A few even shared their own ghost stories. All of this added up to a successful, if barely, profitable career. And, after five years, he's gotten this tabloid stuff down to an art.Most of what he writes is embellishments upon factual events and historical places. However, there lies more lost-to-time, waiting for rediscovery than even his years of experience have prepared him for. A chance encounter with a disoriented man drags him, screaming, out into this world of nightmares and forgotten dreams.Survival is no longer counted in clicks and mugs sold, but remembering who...what he is.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be novel, and as I finish it, I plan to either stop posting parts here or remove it entirely. That won't be a while yet as this is just the first chapter and prologue.
> 
> © 2018 Karl Josephson, all rights reserved.
> 
> EDITED 2/19/18: Summary. The last was way too general.

First entry from the blog "Chicago, After Midnight":

'Any city that reaches a certain age, a certain stage of development, will start to rewrite its own history. There are always many reasons for this: wanting to paste on a pretty face; removing the derelicts; or the saddest, forgetfulness. As the city ages, its children grow old as well, and they begin to die. If people didn't listen or no one bothered to write it down, the memories of the city are quickly lost to time. 

'Yet, there is always a piece that remains, some part of the past that reaches out to the future. It lies waiting to be rediscovered, and given a second chance at existence. That's not always with benevolent intent. 

'It's in these forgotten shadows of the past that I shine the light, curious about what out there might exist. 

'Here in Chicago, After Midnight.'


	2. Chapter 1

Eyes closed. Deep breath. Begin.

'A city slumbers, never really resting. The streets were filled with dreamers, its alleys haunted by the stuff of nightmares. Ebb and flow, life was a continuous cycle in this cement paradise by the lake.

'At least, that's what we told ourselves. All very lyrical and cryptic, just enough delusion to hide the fact most of us were lonely. If you closed your eyes and ignored the rest, you could almost pretend you were out there alone. No one wanted to talk to you. Well, no one friendly, that is. Everyone here had a story to tell and a burning urge to see it acted out by other people.'

The cool breeze kicked up some dry leaves dragging them over his feet. He could hear their desiccated tips rattled across the alley as they passed. In the distance, the gentle rumble of a passing train gave the night a lonely atmosphere. A hint of moisture could be detected on the wind. It was really kind of perfect if he thought about it too long. Three a.m. was the perfect time for a poet to be alive.

It was also the perfect time to slit one's wrists in some fatalistic cry for meaning.

Opening his eyes, Honor grinned up at the neon orange glow coming from a half-dead street light. So much sentimental drivel. Thank the stars he wasn't a poet. He actually had a real job and a taxable amount of income. Yes, he had gainful employment in the much more reliable field of tabloid journalism. The work was questionable and respectability merely a delusion, certainly. Yet, a story a night paid enough to get him through the month.

Speaking of which...

Tonight's subject was a decrepit old structure that hadn't been renovated since the Truman administration. At least, according to the city's building permit office. Looking at the modern fire escapes hanging over the dumpsters in the back alley, he knew someone hadn't been following the city ordinances. They did seem to be built pretty solid, thus, up-to-code. Which explained why the building inspector's office hadn't condemn it.

Aiming his lens, he activated the power button on his digital camera. Small, the camera wasn't much in the way of impressive. Still, it did the job he needed. Digital enhancements and telescopic accessories compensated for any shortcomings in his photographical needs. He wasn't embarrassed. His was a small, yet, mighty camera with many mega-pixels. Any journalist worth their salt would be envious and want one of their own. Not everyone was lucky enough to handle his camera, though. Few were so fortunate.

Snickering, he navigated the menu and focused the screen on the higher windows. The arches, lined with stained glass, in the glaring light looked particularly malevolent. He had to take three small steps back and one and a half to the side before the refraction aligned perfectly. Foot hovering mid-step and snapping his shot, he let it auto-take six more for options. He rarely used more than the initial image file. The real art was in the story itself, these pics were simply mood enhancers. Honor set his foot down with a gentle tap for rhythm and to keep from rolling his eyes. The artistry of his work was all con.

The breeze in the alley kicked up a little harder, sending his hair flying about his head. Sighing, Honor reached up to push the damnable curls back. He knew he should have worn the newsboy, or at the very least, visited the barber last weekend. Working late brought with it a host of problems. Being awake to visit a barber was one. Wearing a hat notorious among pickup artists and hipsters while out walking the streets was another. There hadn't been much of a wind when he left. A storm front was possibly moving in.

Pop would know. The old man practically slept with one of the weather networks on these days. Could be worse, he used to have the 'news' channel on.

Honor shuddered as he lowered his camera. After checking the memory for the pic, he turned it off and slipped it back inside his messenger bag. He made sure to securely fasten the buckles in place. It was older than him and the Ritchie would kill him if he damaged it.

The distant wail of a siren carried on the wind, replacing the fading El's squeals. It was almost mournful in the early morning hour. There was only one, a police siren. More than likely a routine domestic situation given the part of town. The old man could tell you for certain.

At least this was only the second he had heard tonight. Upon a time, they would fill the gaps between dusk and dawn with a constant wail. Gentrification had lessened those a few blocks over. Most, as with the building before him, had less desirable sources.

He had chosen the windows from this back alley specifically. The day laborers hadn't gotten around to boarding these up yet. They would seal the building in a shroud of cheap plywood and scaffolding, leaving only the rats and roaches to inhabit another of the once glorious monuments of the Gothic revival period. Gates would be wrapped around the scaffolding, warning of construction hazards, but once they were up, no further action would ever be taken. Either buildings on this street had been sitting as such for the past three years alone. One had been boarded up for almost ten, the first to fall into some bank or mega conglomerate's hands.

The fight for what was left of this neighborhood's soul was almost up. Only a few families remained in the building next door. There was already a 'new owners' sign out front, warning against future vacancies. A single bodega remained at the corner. Pop gave it a year.

Ritchie had more faith. He gave it twelve months.

Shaking his head with a chuckle, Honor stuffed his hands into his jacket and walked out back the way he came. Out on the sidewalk, he noted the streets were empty of even parked cars. He shouldn't be surprised. Hardly a person remained in this neighborhood with access to one. Hell, even he used the L or walked. How long before those stopped running here, he wondered.

Another breeze blew in, one heavier than before. This far from the lake, the wind wasn't usually so active, not with the city between them. Interested in seeing if it was a storm, he took a deep breath, exhaling through his mouth. The tang of metal tended to be a strong indicator of rain.

Honor blinked in confusion as his throat constricted and vision began to blur. His tongue felt thinker with every attempt to swallow. Mind muddled, he tried to understand what was happening. As he shifted in place, the world seemed to float out from beneath him. Only the sharp and sudden spike of pain in his knees brought him back to earth, quite literally. He had fallen.

Allergy. He was having an allergic reaction! He remembered...knew what to do.

Fingers slack and numb, he fumbled with the buckles on his bag. After three tries, he managed to get one of them open and his hand inside. At the bottom was the hard plastic tube he was searching for. He could hear more than feel the wheeze of each slow breath as he struggled against the cap. Finally breaking the seal, he popped the injection pen out and stabbed it through his shirt against his stomach. There was no pain but the relief was almost instant and he could breathe again.

His heart pounded as the adrenalin rushed through his veins. Slowly, his vision returned as he blinked too-dry eyes. The drag of lids over the burning irises brought a whimper to his lips. This was a close one, but he wasn't safe yet.

Dropping the pen, he still felt weak but had to finish. The effects were only temporary. His hands shook as he reached back into the messenger bag for a tiny bottle of allergy pills. It took three tries before he managed to remove the cap and shake out two pills. Honor didn't bother with searching for something to drink, choosing to choke them down dry instead. He gagged but managed to swallow them quickly.

All that was left to do was wait as his body still trembled from the reaction and shot.

He stayed kneeling for several minutes, ignoring the protests from his ankles and knees. This had been a bad one. He hadn't suffered an attack that overwhelming in years. In point of fact, this shouldn't have even happened. The timing of tonight's trip had been planned precisely to give him plenty of leeway. There were still several hours until the pre-dawn. That was usually when the greatest spore release began.

The storm must have brought in some kind of fungal bloom. That was the only explanation he could think of. Ordinary mold infestations, especially in the open, didn't have even half that much strength. A chill gripped his insides. Looking to the sky, he focused on the clouds above. Heavy in the sky, they reflected the glow from the street lights below, soaring slowly above the city. Having brought this bout, there might be more to come.

By the time the allergy pills kicked in, Honor was feeling exhausted as the adrenalyn had finally wore off. His work day-night had come to an end, checking in with Ritchie would have to wait. Taking a shuddering breath, he braced himself against the sidewalk and pushed up with all his flagging strength. It took a second try, but he made it. A quick check of his watch in the street light revealed a little under two hours before the pre-dawn bloom. Sighing, he started back for home. The rest of the night was shot at this point. 

He would go home and pass out on the couch. When he woke up, he could take something stronger and longer-lasting that didn't put him under the table. Glancing back at the pen and it's packaging, he debated going back for it just to clean up the mess, but hadn't the energy. With a shake of his head, he went on. This afternoon, he would replace it and come back to see if it was still here to cleanup then. Two steps later, he was cracking his jaw in a massive yawn.

Under his feet, the sidewalk were cracked and chipped, yet remained mostly intact. The streets were cleaned but for the leaf litter and occasional scrap of trash. A lack of people did wonders for the city. Honor could feel the corners of his lips turn up in a Grinch's Grin.

'High above the city streets below hides a secret, waiting. A lone, forgotten relic from the past. You shouldn't feel sorry for this lone creature for he'll have no such pity for you, should you venture into his lair. At night, in the wee hours, begins the sound, an ominous final chapter in the lives of the last who dared set foot here.'

That was close, but maybe not his final draft of a paragraph from tonight's story. Not bad, considering this was only a draft since noon.

Snickering, he continued his exhausted lope towards the nearest L station. 

~*~

Despite a construction delay on the L platform, the glow of pre-dawn hours hadn't lit up the sky by the time Honor was pushing through the door of his building. A heavy, brass key and a four digit code was all that stood between them and the madness of the streets. Honor enjoyed that thought. Truthfully, their block was far more quieter than most and further from the lake, if possible.

Every building on their block had reached historical registry status. His was a red brick, six floor apartment building in the Chicago Style. That was simply a fancy way of saying 'old, pretty building with large windows'. Pretty if you enjoyed architecture, boring if you enjoyed sleek, modern lines. Most of the apartments in this neighborhood were rent controlled and never went on the market.

To that fact, the Matthews family had lived here for three generations. There would be a fourth if Pop had his way. At twenty-three, that was one the last of life's wonders on Honor's mind. There were far more important issues upon which to focus. 

The foyer was neat and cool this morning as he headed straight for the elevators, his cell phone in hand. A cleaning service came in sometime around midnight every night to run a sweeper over the threadbare carpet. Potted ferns and a couple broad leaf perennials lined the walls from the door to the mail boxes. Ritchie liked to complain the place reminded him of a 'damn jungle' and preferred to use the service entrance around the rear. 

While he was on that subject, Honor drug his finger down the screen, scrolling through the contacts list. Ritchie's work email was quickly brought up. He really needed to send notice and copy of the day-night's work even if only for accounting's sake.

A glance out of the corner of his eye at his mail box in passing left a weight on his chest. No letters had come yesterday. He sighed and hit the elevator call button. Honor longed for the days when his blog received snailmail. Ones with the letters cut out from magazines were his favorite. Those had always provided fodder for his blog. Now, most of his stories came from interviews with colorful people. Only the trolls cared enough to track down his inbox these days. Trolls and stalkers, which is why he was no longer 'independent'. Waiting for the car to arrive, he puttered his lips. Five years, he had been writing these stories; two since his old blog had been snapped up by a local tabloid. That had put an end to the 'interesting' correspondences, creating a real-life firewall between him and the crazies. Only the gas bill still arrived in his postbox these days. 

Amusingly enough, they didn't even have a gas line connected to this building.

~*~

The front door always took a little effort to close. Someone along the line had taken a shine to solid wood and replaced the original with one of solid oak. Of course, the handle and latch had to be replaced along with the entire jam. While the thick wood provided security and sound proofing, one could wear themself out trying to close it in a hurry. Honor preferred to gently shut the door. The solid thump under his hands was reassuring.

"You're a little early. Breakfast hasn't arrived yet." The familiar nasal voice of his father echoed down the hall from the living room.

Snorting, Honor raised the messenger bag over his head and set it on the entrance table. Shrugging out of his jacket, he nearly dropped it as he reached for the hook. He had to rest against the wall for a moment after hanging it. "Please tell me you ordered a salad."

"Caesar. My memory's not completely shot."

Honor took a deep breath to be certain he was ready. Nothing twinged or wheezed. Exhaling, he stood up and grabbed his bag before heading down the hall. "Of course not. The DA's office would hardly keep a derelict on the payroll." That was a point of pride for both of them. He enjoyed the smile it brought to Pop's lips.

"Did you at least leave a message for Ritchie?" That was his old man, ever aware of the minute details one my forget and ready to remind him about them. A disruption in the schedule required certain actions be taken.

"Yes." The urge to run a hand through his blond curls made Honor clench his fingers tight in his bag. He had heard in passing that it led to follicle strain and eventual fallout. Not curious enough to confirm, but still cautious enough to care, he restrained himself in these times of familial stress. "I am fine, by the way. Merely another allergic reaction."

"Good to know. Though, it shouldn't be a problem for much longer." Already tucked into a classic three-piece suit, the old man was relaxing in his recliner. The footrest was down this morning, which indicated his ankle must have been feeling better. Bathed in the light of the television, he was relaxed but alert, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. "Says here the Southside's already getting hit with the first snow of the season. Of course, we're still too warm; it'll probably rain soon. This city's got a micro climate like you wouldn't believe." The shine of his dark hair in the dim light hid the solid-silver roots.

Nodding, Honor stepped into the living room and headed across to his computer desk. Nestled in the covey formed by the bay window, his desktop was backdropped by the entire city. They were only six stories up, but he got a clear view of the lake and most of downtown beyond thanks to the street layout. He set the bag on the desk next to his keyboard while hitting the standby key to boot up the computer. Only two of his four monitors came on, drawing out a sigh. "Pop, have you been checking the race scores again?"

"Nah, your aunt Cecilia and that broad she lives with needed to know when the Bulls were playing. She's planning a trip up next month."

Honor could only hang his head. "Aunt Naydine is not a broad she lives with, Pop." They went through this every time. 

"Oh yeah? When that nag apologizes for costing me world series tickets, I'll call her by her name." Taking a sip of his coffee, the old man finished with a gentle sigh. "Until then, she can fly her broom over Oz all she likes, I'm not giving her the satisfaction."

"That was seventy-two years ago, I don't believe that apology will be forethcoming." Pinching his nose, Honor winced as he could feel the pills begin to wear off. He required a shower and these clothes needed to soak in a long wash cycle. Hearing the beep of his computer, he unbuckled his bag and pulled out the camera. The USB cord was already connected to the keyboard. His editing software came on the moment his camera's charging light started flashing. Two clicks and he was downloading the entire memory.

A stoppover on the Eastside while awaiting his connection had given him inspiration for another story. A fire had recently gutted some highrise under construction two blocks from the station. What would probably turn out to be an arson for insurance scam found new life as the results of an angry dragon. Personally, he detested dragons in media these days. Far too played out. Still, the fire had started on the thirtieth floor. If nothing else, the tripe would write itself.

Pop cleared his throat. "You'll have to pay for the pizza. I'm a little short until the third." Half-a-heartbeat later, the knock came at the door.

Honor looked over his shoulder at the smug grin his father wore. The laugh lines around his eyes appeared more like canyons these days, matching the deep furrows on his brow. He was uncertain how the old man knew exactly when there would be a knock or the phone would ring. That was one of the few real mysteries of life. Perhaps he might become a story for the site himself one day.

An amused snort came from the old man. "You're not as subtle as you think. That left dimple still forms when you're thinking mischievous thoughts." Gesturing with his thumb, he jerked his head towards the door. "Go get breakfast and keep the plots for world domination to at least one continent."

"I hope you ordered black olives and no processed meats or the sink shall enjoy your beer." There had to be a line drawn somewhere. Breakfasts were the one meal they shared a day. Neither of them cared for the standard fare and Dominic's was only down the block. Since Pop 's diet precluded donuts, yet he loved breads, they compromised on pizza. On his way to the door, Honor caught his father rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

"When doesn't it get at least the dregs?" The tiny smirk on his lips indicated there most likely wasn't one left in the apartment.

He could only sigh in response. His Pop was a little quicker on the draw somedays. Knowing the old man's mind was still sharp was comforting, even if he found himself on the edge of it.

~*~

'Once more the sky opens upon the city, releasing the bounty...' Honor paused in his typing with a tiny frown. That felt wrong. Turning to the thesaurus on his left, he flipped the pages until he came across the correct reference. Listed third in, he found one that matched the tone of his article. '...releasing the blessing of a grateful harvest deity. How long until their favor will no longer be granted is a mystery. Perhaps if we remember to leave a dozen glazed, raspberry jelly-filled donuts on the altar every week, we may never have to find out.

'It's six a.m., soon the sun will ascend to the heavens and chase away all within the shadows. If you're reading this, congratulations, you made it through another Chicago night.'

Dragging the mouse over the pad, he clicked the Save button and closed the program. Beside his monitor, the external harddrive's status light flashed twice, signaling the changes had been added. Two months of editing and cross-checking his references, yet still, he felt the post was lacking. What had been a sudden downpour while fortuitously stopping for Ritchie's donuts left him with time to concoct this nagging script. He had done nothing but regret the idea ever since. Somehow, he was unable to fully leave it be.

Perhaps because he kept being reminded of that damn morning every time he came home late and the apartment smelled of mint glaze. Pop apparently didn't care about his pre-diabetes diagnosis.

'Eighty-two is a good life, kid,' was the usual response.

Except, it wasn't. Honor had only been around twenty-three of those years. Did he not deserve a chance to annoy the old man further? There would be more chances for many years to come if he had his say. Since he controlled most of what entered the house food wise, there was little Pop could do about that. So, he studiously kept to a time table that was not only before dawn, but usually got him home before the old man woke.

Pushing back from the desk, Honor looked to the lower shelf on the left where most of his equipment laid, including the computer's tower. Two tablets sat in their charging docks along with his backup cameras and two 'burn' phones. Those were Pop's 'just in case'.

Behind him, the television clicked off. With a long, drawn out sigh, the old man lowered the foot rest of his chair. "One of these days, I'm going to get too old for this. When I can't sit my chair up by hand, shoot me." He snorted, thumping a shoe on the ground. "Better yet, get me one of those electrical ones. I hear they even come with batteries now. Your birthday's coming up, it might be something to invest in."

Taking out one of the tablets, Honor tapped the power button with a roll of his eyes. What more response was there to give? He had tried ordering one last year. The old man had refused delivery. Right now, the chair sat in Ritchie's living room serving everyone but the intended recipient. Honor was uncertain if it even worked now with all the sports parties the man threw. March had been a particularly hard month on the leather.

His tablet came alive with the chirping of birds. Swiping the lock screen away revealed a project Honor had set aside the previous week. Some information was proving quite inaccurate, as if someone had lied. He paused a moment to enjoy the irony of someone lying to a tabloid writer. His expedition last Tuesday to the southside had only muddled the details further. Still, there was one way to clear up most of his problems. "Hey, Pop. Would you happen to have a timeline on when I might get the actual property history to the house on May Street?"

Pop pushed himself up from the chair with only a slight sway to the left. After correcting himself, he adjusted his tie and grinned at Honor. "You know, Caroline is keeping me late over your little inquiries. FOIA requests expend a lotta city resources, especially when you submit them by the truck load."

"Then kindly inform Caroline that compiling the information for such notices is not your job. The last time I checked, Special Investigative Services had not been combined with the City Records Department." There was no point in keeping this project open for now. Saving the file, he closed it and opened the directory for his editing app. Several were still awaiting the requested files. Records had been slower than usual fulfilling his requests. There was no purpose of it, he paid his fees, he submitted his requests through the proper channels. He even paid his father's consultancy fee to read each application over for...

Honor's eyes widened a bit, then suddenly narrowed. Tilting his head, he spun the desk chair to face Pop.

Busy checking his suit for dust, the old man didn't look up. There was a tiny grin upon his lips, twisting his features into an expression bordering on excited.

"Pop?" Feeling his face scrunch in suspicion, Honor stared up at his father.

"Yeah, junior," came the guileless response. After buttoning his suit jacket, the old man glanced over to Honor. Upon seeing the younger man, he sighed, the pleasantness leaving his features to a bland sag. "What is it?"

This was the time for caution. What Honor could say and do might alter their moods today, change the tone of their relationship, and scar him for life. For a moment, the mere thought of asking felt an impossible task. He lacked the strength to face such an undertaking this morning. Taking a fortifying breath, Honor sniffed the air slightly. A hint of cologne lingered. He exhaled slowly. There would be no point in pursuing the more invasive line of questioning. "Please keep your flirtations to her breaks. She does have important work to do and one wouldn't want her to be caught slacking off."

Now was Pop's turn to stare at him with narrowed eyes, lips thinned. After a moment, he snorted as a grin took control over the left side of his mouth. "Keep your nose out of our paper filing."

"Yes, I'm sure that's what you are doing." Honor considered standing up, even taking a deep breath to test his strength. The effort left him light headed, forcing him to lean an elbow against the armrest. His cheeks felt warm. Eyes growing heavy, he attempted one last effort to shake the lethargy. There was no use to it. His medicine had finally taken its toll. A heavy hand settled upon his shoulder, making him sink further under the weight of it.

Giving Honor a firm squeeze, Pop leaned over him. "I want you to get over to the clinic this afternoon, no more putting it off. It will be a wait, but you need that prescription renewed. This generic crap's gonna have you like a zombie again." After another reassuring squeeze, he straightened up and reached into his jacket. "As a matter of fact, I'm calling in to make you an appointment. That'll reduce the wait time at least."

The response was simple and automatic. "Yes, Pop." Fighting him or at least reminding the old man they had already fought this battle was futile, the outcome long decided. Despite what many a teacher had slanderously told the old man, Honor did, in fact, learn. Besides that fact, there was the appointment he had scheduled for this evening in the same neighborhood. Travel time between the two would be negligible.

"Good." With a last pat to Honor's shoulder, Pop headed for the door, his phone in hand.

Honor yawned one last time and debated sleeping in Pop's chair or forging on ahead to bed. Either seemed a mountainous task to his exhausted body. There could only be so much time devoted to the cause before his body made the decision for him. Facing the recliner with half-lidded eyes, he shrugged one shoulder. This would hardly be the first occasion he had slept in it. He leaned back enough to replace the tablet in the dock with a groan. It might not need recharging, but the same could not be said of him.

Staggering to his feet proved a mean feat. Twice, he paused to catch his breath. Eventually, leaning heavily upon the arm rest, he managed to ascend his full height and stumble the three steps between chairs. Once at his destination, he gracefully spun and fell back in a simple, single motion. His plump rump landed with much bouncing as he snickered.

Lethargy was making his mind sappy. He would at once wax poetic if situations remained unchanged. Thankfully for his dignity, he reached down to fumble for the handle of the footrest. After gripping it, he jerked with all his deminishing strength could allow and fell back, his feet shooting up into the air.

Giggling at the dizzying sensation of finding himself suddenly flat, Honor closed his eyes to stop the room's irritating desire to spin madly about. This did little to settle the twirling of his world. "Stop the world, I want to get off," he mumbled, stomach clenching. Perhaps the old man had a point. He would check his messages when he awoke and go straight to the clinic. He would. This lack of control was intolerable. In. Tolerable.

~*~

Cool moisture ghosted along exposed skin, collecting along the pockets of his flesh. Rivulets formed, running from the tips of branches down to his roots. Rain was in the air. All along the filaments and strands, the knowledge sent an impulse. Tiny stems turned up, straightened to a shadowy sky. Energy crackled along his base while thunder echoed in the distance. The drops would fall soon...

Blinking, Honor peered blearily at the gray above as he lay nestled in his clothes cocoon. For a heartbeat, he thought the shadowy forms above were clouds. So low, he could but reach out to touch them...a dizzy spell forced his eyes closed once more. Dreaming. He had been dreaming. This was Pop's chair and the gray their ceiling, which was truly white, lime plaster. The lighting in the room must be dim.

'What awakened me?' He had barely thought before thunder rumbled outside the building. The noise rattled the panes of ancient windows around his living room. 

He wished to know the time, yet lacked the strength to move from this spot and, alas, his watch lay within his bag. Giving up the silly notion of time, he sighed and relaxed his body. Even as lightning bright enough to blind his already closed eyes filled the room, he drifted off. The explosive rumble only served to ease him further.

Wasting time dreaming was a hobby with many hours yet. His regular schedule started this evening, 'nearest the fall of darkness', to be so poetic. If he were late for the appointment Pop had made for him at the clinic, such was life.


	3. Chapter 2

When next he woke, the world was bathed in brilliant light. Honor flinched away with hiss, snickering as he covered his watery eyes. Waking in the chair, having forgotten to close the curtains was his least favorite manner of coming to. At least, ones that involved remembering how and where he had fallen asleep to begin with. Ones lacking in those details tended to all be on the far side of 'not-good'.

At least he felt well rested, enough to stretch out with a gentle moan. Yawning cracked his jaw, making him blink in surprise at the ceiling. there, he noticed the shadows had fled. The white plaster was certainly normal in appearance now. 

How much time was there before his day-night began? Certainly, he had hours before his first interview of the night. 'Those Giggling Young Women', as they had signed their private message, were night owls and did not awaken before nine. However, he did have to check in with Ritchie since he failed to this morning. An actual, physical stop by Harmoney might be in the cards.

He had not checked his phone, but felt there were several messages awaiting him. One was bound to be from his editor, knowing he had a clinic appointment today. The old man never told Honor to do something without ensuring someone else knew about that as well. This wasn't for security, Pop simply believed nagging from all sides was the best encouragement.

Time to get up and going.

Honor puttered his lips for a moment. Was his presence outside this chair really necessary? Perhaps. Would he receive a mountain of grief should he remain? Most assuredly. With a tiny whimper, he sat up and dropped the footrest using his legs. 

There were most likely two hours waiting for him to shower, shave, and ready himself before heading off for the night. That might be enough time to prepare Pop's dinner and something for later if he managed everything in between correctly.

~*~

One of the annoying parts of living in an old building was awaiting for the water to heat up for his shower. Outdated pipes sang as if a demented Greek Chorus, loud and clearly through the walls. The flow was tepid at first and would grow slowly to a more tolerable warmth. At least this gave him the time to review his messages.

As he had feared, there were three from Ritchie from various times throughout the day. First was a confirmation that he had, indeed, received notice from Pop of about his scheduled visit to the clinic at five. That left him under two hours to get ready. The second message was nothing more than an address and order for pickup. Nicholas wanted tamales and Ritchie refused to set foot on the South Side. Honor sighed.

Granted, he earned a tidy sum from these errands. Yet, that was not in his job description. He had a life and a full-time career that did not include catering to Ritchie and his prissy partner.

Which brought him round full circle to the third message. Along with a reminder of his appointment, Ritchie had arranged an early meeting with an 'impatient source'. Far from the first time this had happened, Honor had always thought he made his intense displeasure of these occurences known after each and every single one. Yet, here he was, once more having to suddenly rearrange his schedule at the last minute. He was done with being subtle about this point. There would never be another.

In the mean time, a potential client had an appointment and Honor was nothing if not professional. There was little information beyond a name, description, location, and a time. Honor's stomach tightened when he scanned the time and location. Barely forty minutes after his clinic visit, he was supposed to interview this man. Whoever had arranged this setup knew enough to locate the setting near his clinic.

'Tall, dark, and atavistically British.' That had to be Nicholas. In his youth, the man had written poetry in Latin while buying everything in Europe that wasn't nailed down or in a museum. His personality screamed 'bitchy' while sucking down cheap beer from Milwaukee. He was a White Sox fan after all.

Both Pop and the clinic had sent him his appointment time in all-capitalized text messages. No surprises there.

The rest of his messages were the usual notifications from his blog and related 'social medias' for interviews. That promotion had been a mistake he would never live down. Certainly, he earned more views, which in turn led to more money for the tabloid. Yet, what was the value of such a devil's bargain besides his soul? A free drink on him for every story he accepted for consideration to his blog? Ritchie had thought the idea genius, until Hellen saw the expense reports. Still, the promotional event continued on.

He had three interviews alone this evening, before midnight. Well, four, now. It was no wonder he hadn't a car with all the 'social drinking' this career entailed. If he cared at all for his body, he would find a way to end this madness soon.

Speaking of which...

With a soft groan, he squeezed the power button to put the phone in standby and set it gently on the bathroom counter. Steam started to collect on the mirror, obscuring his image. Reaching for the cabinet, he pulled it open to reveal the medicines inside. On the bottom shelf sat a red inhaler and two empty pill bottles. The latter would be taken care of tonight. Grasping the inhaler, he popped open the cover and placed it against his lips with a grimace. He always hated this part.

Taking a deep breath, he squeezed the inhaler. Bitter taste filled his mouth as he held his breath. No matter how hard he tried, the medicine always managed to seep just enough in his mouth to gag him. Dread curled cold along his spine. Then he took another hit and flinched away at the same time. Awful, simply awful! How this kept him healthy was beyond him. All but tossing the inhaler back on the shelf, he slammed the mirror closed and bent to rinse his mouth out.

On the sink, the phone chimed receipt of another message. Spitting water, Honor sent it a death glare. There would be time a plenty after his shower to deal with life's burdens.

~*~

The gentle rhythm of Tommy Dorsey and His Orchestra filled the entirety of the apartment from Pop's old console stereo. The smell of cleaning laundry warred with the stench of singed garlic, onions, and peppers. There was still twenty minutes until departure time and Honor was nowhere near ready.

Bopping around in his briefs, Honor was careful to step back away from the stove as he raised the lid of his closest pot. Steam wafted up from the bubbling sauce. Dipping in a large, wooden spoon to stir went far too smoothly. The sauce required more time to thicken. With a sigh, he set the lid back in place and laid the spoon back upon the tea plate beside the pot. His pasta rarely turned out properly. One flaw or another always crept into the mix.

He blamed his ancestors. Grandmother was from Eastern Europe, his Grandfather had been raised on corned beef and cabbage. If there wasn't a sausage or potato, Pop had been completely clueless. The old man was a 'whiz with the microwave and virtuoso of the takeout menu'. Simply put, the fact Honor had the ability to cook anything on the stovetop was a miracle in and of itself.

Another chime came from the living room, his phone going off. Honor gave into the urge to groan and roll his eyes to the ceiling. A third text in as many minutes, all from the same source. Ritchie would simply have to await his decision.

Sitting upon the back burner was a perfectly made pan of sauted onions, peppers, and minced garlic. His second attempt. The first had been a sacrifice to the god of fine dining. At least, that is the tale he would spin for Pop if the man bothered to ask. More likely, he would be impressed with the angel hair pasta waiting in the sink, the Caesar Salad in the fridge, garlic bread wrapped in a warm towel on the table, and breaded chicken breasts and egg plant in the oven enough not to question Honor's failure.

If this red sauce would but thicken, the meal would be complete. Once more, fate had stepped in to insert a flaw in the diamond of his dinner plans. Tonight's mistake was brought to you by tomato sauce. The fourth chime from his phone irritated enough that Honor snapped his spoon.

"To hell with this sauce, be gone from my sight, and take Nicholas' Tex-Mex cravings with you!" Waving the spoon's remnants at the pot, he cursed the infernal thought that he should make Pop one nice, unburnt meal. Forget the endeavor!

Taking two steps to the right, he opened the spice cabinet and removed the corn starch. This was an old cheat that weakened the flavor, but, alas, he was of no mind to care. He was not going to run late for a lazy sauce. He dumped two tablespoons in a mixing bowl and added enough water to soak the contents. After whisking the starch into a thin paste, he dumped them in his sauce and stirred wildly. Soon enough, the entire sauce was almost a solid mass. A full minute of bubbling undid much of this, but left a sauce bottom-shelf canned ravioli would be proud of.

With drooping shoulders, he set the pot on the other back burner and turned off his stove. Perhaps one day he would succeed in this endeavor. No longer whimsical, he headed for the living room and his clothes. There was still fifteen minutes before he scheduled himself to leave. Perhaps he would get the Tamales for Ritchie. It would certainly butter the man up when he discovered what Honor had made for Pop and not brought any to share.

Snickering, Honor snatched his pants off the computer desk to put them on. Tonight would be long and the evening had yet to begin.

~*~

After a harrowing trip through rush hour commuters that could only be described in terms Alice and her wonderful friends would understand, he had somehow managed to arrive at his destination. The temptation to turn many of those he had encountered into monsters for his blog was nothing new. Sixteen people per every car yelling or texting into their phones was horrible enough even without the standard issue screaming child with its dead-eyed mother as had become mandated under Mayor Emanuel's CTA. Yet, somehow, today felt even worse than most. By the time he had made his third connection, he was nursing a headache from the depths of the pit. Thankfully, that had been the last and only four stops before the final station. Now here, he had arrived fifteen minutes before his appointed time.

Of course, now that he was present, he was reminded why he had put-off coming for so long. An impatient sigh came from the other side of the reception desk.

Filling out the sign-in sheet, Honor glanced through the safety glass. 

The woman sat facing the side wall, her cash drawer open, a stack of ones in front of her. Very slowly, she drew out five of them, then glance to the computer on her right. 

He was due back three ones. This entire process was ridiculously overly-dramatic!

Carefully, she counted out three of them and laid them out on the counter before him. Running her fingers over the edges, she arranged them in a fan shape before smiling dully as if slightly unaware of her surroundings. Her grin was blunted, almost forced, matching the unfocused glassiness of her eyes. The woman was clearly on something!

Sighing, Honor put the clipboard and pen back on the counter and accepted his change. "Thank you." How had such a person come to work within a medical clinic? With any luck, taking money and signing in patients was the extent of her duties. Not that her fellow staff members were much better. He turned to the waiting area and started heading for a comfortable looking chair in the corner when he heard a door open.

"Honor M.?" The man's voice came out soft and a touch higher than considered feminine.

For a moment, he wasn't certain that the person was a man until he turned to see for himself. The first noticeable feature was a beard and mustache on a man nearly a foot taller than himself. That both were dyed a bright pink and the only hair on the man's head was enough to put Honor's eyebrows far north of his supraorbital ridge. Well, this was new. 

Clearing his throat, Honor blinked twice to compose himself. "Yes?"

Mouth forming a tight line, the man narrowed his eyes and raised his chin. "Follow me, please." The pink man was clearly displeased with Honor's reaction.

Well, that certainly went well for first impressions. Throat dry and stomach flopping, he felt the urge to grimace. How had this become his day, let alone his life? Then again, considering the company he kept and choice in professions, he was one to talk. "Of course."

~*~

Apparently today was doomed to failure.

Hand clamped firmly over his left elbow, Honor glared at the retreating form of the pink nurse. The gauze beneath his palm was almost soaked through curtosy of the six new holes he now had in his arm. The man was a menace!

For his part, the man was unable to meet Honor's eye as he reached for the door handle. Face pinched and pale, his throat convulsed several times as he clutched at his stomach with the hand holding the vials of blood. "Again, Mr. Matthews, I am so, so, so sorry!"

"Yes, I'm certain." Honor was also certain that this was the last time he dared grace this butcher shop with his presence. Facing the wall, he waited until the thump of the door before easing his strict posture. The pain in his arm remained. A rapid knock upon the door had him straightening up once more as he jerked towards it. "What is it now?"

The person on the otherside opened the door as she spoke. "Mr. Matthews, it's Doctor Holkem." 

Relief settled in his stomach making Honor relax a little. At last, a familiar face!

Doctor Holkem was tall enough that Honor had to stretch his neck to meet her gaze. "If you don't mind, I'll skip through formalities." Today, she looked wornout, even her lab coat had creases from long use. Wrinkles around her half-open eyes and mouth were deep-rooted. Despite her height, her shoulders were slumped and her posture weak. Exhaustion was clearly written in her body language. Flipping through the folder, she nodded at it. "Looks like it's a little past time for your annual renewal. If all checks out and there's been no changes, I'll call it in to your usual pharmacy."

He felt himself nodding as she glanced to him in confirmation. 

"Good. Good." After flipping to the last page, she let the folder close. "Your vitals are within acceptable levels for your age, your weight's the same. You haven't taken up smoking, though I am concerned with your self-reported alcohol consumption levels. That won't effect your liver for some time at the current rate, but even at your age, you're not invulnerable. Add to it your allergy medicines, then you're on thin ice. Though, I'm sure you're well aware of that since we've discussed it before." Trailing off, she frowned at him slightly, eyebrows not quite meeting. "Is there anything else?"

For a moment, he stood there, uncertain of what exactly she was asking. He took several seconds to comprehend her statements. This information was good and useful. She wanted to know if he had problems not reported to that pink devil during his evaluation. With a shake to waken himself from the ruminating stupor, he nodded. "Yes, I require a refill of my Epinephrine injections. I was forced to use my last this morning."

Her eyes widened slightly before relaxing back to their resting levels. "That's certainly not welcome news." Opening the folder again, she reached into the pocket of her lab coat to pull out a pen. She flipped to the second page and marked several times upon the paper. "I'll give you 5 refills for the next three months. Given your medical history, that's a little on the overly-cautious side, but, we're better safe than sorry. Have you continued to minimize your exposure to allergens?"

That was certainly not an issue given his chosen career and lifestyle. Vampires had less restrictions upon them. A tiny smile twitched Honor's lips. "Yes." Then he reconsidered this morning, and tilted his head away. "Well, as much as possible. There are some situations that even I cannot avoid. This morning, I was struck by a sudden attack hours before there were any expected blooms. I was on my knees, gasping for breath before I even knew what was happening. It's scary and not something I wish to repeat."

"True." Her eyes were still on his paperwork, pen at the ready as she nodded once. "Accidents happen even in the most secure, hermetically sealed environments." She wrote another few words out before closing the folder one-handed. "It's our hope to keep you, if not cured, then functional. I've added a stronger antihistamine injectable just in case, the effects of which will last longer than the Epinephrine. The only problem being that you shouldn't use it in conjuction with your daily regiment. I want you to call 9-1-1 if you have to use it. Trust me, you don't want to be walking around with both in your system, even if you can."

His heart fluttered at her words. "If that's what you believe necessary." 

"Unfortunately, I do given your recent experience. Even with a daily inhaler, your lungs have demonstrated weakened function for someone of your age and health."

"I see." Unable to summon further thoughts, he was glad to be sitting on the exam table. This wasn't at all what he had expected coming in today. The last three visits had all been routine.

Taking a quick breath, she exhaled through puffed out lips. "Your blood is being sent to our lab, we'll have the results later tonight. If there's signs of infection, I might even include an antibiotic and possibly a steroid." She glanced down at his folder and snorted. "A second steroid, pill form this time."

Honor could only nod. His mind was already working on how this would affect him. Allergies. Something considered so simple and common for most people, it was damn near debilitating to one such as him! Yet, this was merely another aspect of his life. He would come to terms with it and move on as always. "Thank you, Doctor Holkem."

~*~

There were times when the invention of the mobile phone seemed positively a wretched idea. Standing in the middle of a waiting room scrolling through his contacts was one. He remembered the era of phone booths, when they still existed on most street corners. That illusion of privacy was a lost comfort he sorely longed for right now. As counterintuitive as it seemed, there was one option that replicated the psuedo-isolation of a phone booth.

Grabbing the handle, Honor pulled the front door open and stepped out onto the street. Wind immediately bounced the hair not caught under his newsboy hard between the hat and his forehead. Shivering at the cool moisture from the lake, he took the few steps down to the sidewalk and searched for a private area. A trashbin under a tree half-a-block down the street appeared promising. There were a few people about and the bus stop was on the opposite side, down at the corner. Truly, this would be his only refuge.

Heading for the shaded spot, Honor mused on the social ediquitte of cell phone use. When had using a phone in a building become more 'public' than out on the street? Texting in company was considered rude, answering a phone around people was simply unseemly and gauche. The rules of camera use were better left undwelt upon. People were inconsistent morons!

Honor sighed with relief to note that he was alone under his lone shade tree. The skin at the back of his neck prickled hotly as his cheeks burned while he hit the call button for Pop. This entire practice was absurd and feeling guilty for needing to use his damn phone was at the height of it! Yet, he was unable to keep his eyes off the ground even while he placed it to his ear. There was a reason he came out only as the sun was going down. Well, aside from the health benefits.

He didn't have to wait long.

"Hey, junior. How did it go?" The old man was a little hard to hear over the speaker. Glenn Miller was playing in the background.

That was not wholely unexpected. Still. Rubbing his forehead, Honor groaned under his breath. "Not great. She wrote a new prescription for injectable antihistamines, while doubling my Epinephrine. A nurse drew blood to rule out infections. I'll have the results later tonight." Hearing the old man exhale through his nose brought another round of heat to his cheeks. "Yes, I believe 'not great' about sums it up."

"No kidding." Emotions choked Pop's voice to a gentle whisper. He spoke in that same tone last ten years ago. Those had not been pleasant times. "You follow the doc's instructions carefully, kid, you hear me?"

A humorless chuckle slipped out. Scanning the tree's branches, Honor bit his lower lip in an effort to stave off the stinging in his eyes. "That's the plan." News relayed, a bout of sudden stupefaction overtook him. Lacking the will to say more, he chose to end the call. "I love you, Pop."

"Love you too, Honor. Do me a favor, don't overdo it again tonight, all right?"

"I will make an effort of it." He held the phone to his ear until he heard the chirp indicating disconnection. The device had the heft of a brick as he went to text Ritchie. He was no longer willing to play errand boy. At least, not tonight. There was still the matter of this earlier than normal interview to attend as well. Apparently, this was to be one of 'those nights', that he was certain about.


End file.
